His name was Red
His name was Red and we were the best of friends. That evening, around the usual cans of the sweet nectar that makes all men happy and miserable at once, displayed in a ragged towel spread across a classic wooden table, we'd gathered to celebrate the emancipation of all people on Earth: the horrible year where everything had died was at an end and we could at last revel in the feeling that the Beats of old had known all those years ago. The 21 guns fired worldwide and I shoted out a " FUCK! " which landed, unfortunately, in the yet uneducated ears of a young victim. A breath was less than what I needed at the time. Red smoked with a grin, I didn't. He wore glasses, I didn't. Those were the surface differences in this holy bloodline of the sacred and benign. 'Look, man...' he'd say, can in one hand and two measly fingers holding up smoke on the other '... you can give a man the finest baked good, the slice of his dreams, and a single lettuce lea...